


The Futility of Denial

by Guanin



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You saw us meet, and yet you still followed me. Odd, that. Considering that our first meeting had me choking you against a lamppost."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Futility of Denial

“You know, Pete, I’ve been thinking of something.”

Peter narrowly avoided a swing at his head, ducking to the right at the last second.

“Really? You going to keep tantalizing me like that or you’re going to tell me what it is?”

Claude raised an eyebrow, considering Peter with a slow deliberation that had previously resulted in Peter breaking a bone. Or having his bone broken, rather.

“Careful there. You came dangerously close to sarcasm for a second. I’m not sure if I feel like hearing backtalk like that from you. Not your forte. You might sprain your brain cell.”

Another swing aimed at his head. This time it struck his forehead, almost making him fall to the side.

“Ha ha. Very clever.”

“See?” Claude spread his arms wide in a helpless gesture. “No good.”

This time Peter saw the stick just in time and swung back.

“Just like that,” Claude said.

“But I missed it. That’s a good thing.”

“Only you didn’t use your powers. Which is the whole point of this exercise. Or maybe you’ve stopped hearing that tick, tick, tick over your head, walking time bomb that you are. It isn’t me that’s got his wires all crossed, blues with reds and gunpowder soaked in napalm. But you already got me off topic. My point was those visions you had.”

Peter peered at him, keenly aware of the stick wrapped in Claude’s hands, still and harmless for now, but he knew that at any second it would dive for his throat.

“What about them? I explode. What else do you need to know?”

“Nah, not those. You said you saw me.”

“Yeah.”

“You saw us meet.”

“Yeah.”

Peter shuffled backwards, arms bent at his sides as he watched Claude twirl the stick in quick, ominous circles.

“And yet you still followed me.”

Peter remained silent, suddenly apprehensive. What was Claude up to?

“Odd, that. Considering that our first meeting had me choking you against a lamppost.”

Okay. True. But he hadn’t been thinking about that. He’d just focused on reaching Claude, getting him to help him, not on merciless fingers digging into his throat, his back rammed against the cold post, thinning air growing dangerously short in his lungs. And he did feel that in his dream. It wasn’t just images and smoke, and he’d been as afraid the second time as the first, struggling with the same desperate intensity, yet somehow he’d known that this man wouldn’t really hurt him, and not just because he could heal from anything. Of course, he might not have been so certain if his brain had been less selective and actually shown him Claude throwing him off the roof.

“I just... I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Claude jabbed at Peter’s stomach, slamming all the breath out of Peter’s body. Peter doubled over, struggling to drag air into his lungs.

“Hardly the case, don’t you think? I can’t say I’d vouch much for your instincts there. Unless you enjoyed that.”

“I didn’t mean,” Peter grimaced, then paused, replaying Claude’s final words in his head. He straightened, frowning at the grin he saw peeking at the corners of Claude’s very amused lips.

“What do you mean? Why the hell would I enjoy that? I’m not a masochist.”

“You sure about that? Three denials. A tad much for someone who’s trying to prove his innocence and isn’t on death row.”

“Meaning you’ve already got your mind made up.”

“Not yet. I’m going to need a little bit more proof.”

And with no warning (after all, why would he bother when he’d been doing such a good job of ignoring Peter’s wishes so far?), he smacked Peter across the chest, slammed him against the wall, trapping his right arm behind his back, grabbed his left wrist, and pressed the stick against his throat, hurling him back into the memory so fresh in his nerves. He braced himself, but Claude didn’t squeeze. He just rested the stick against his neck, a palpable warning, or perhaps a challenge. But for what? Then Peter looked up and he knew. He lost his breath.

“Are you enjoying this?” Claude asked, but Peter couldn’t see anything other than his blue, blue eyes, deeper than the cold depths of a glacier, yet hotter than the fires of Montserrat. His face loomed less than half a foot away, closer than it’d ever been, Machiavellian expression piercing through him, daring him to deny what was happening, but not even Peter knew what it was. His mind had melted, thoughts misfiring, shooting off random electrical pulses as he trembled in Claude’s grasp, but he felt no fear, not really, yet something far more sinister and blinding.

“No. Of course not. What kind of stupid question is that?” he replied, but couldn’t steady his breath enough to give his words the proper amount of contempt.

“There’re all kinds.”

Oh God. He was moving closer still, breath warm on his cheek, mouth so temptingly close.

“Some like it gentle.”

Claude dropped the stick and pressed against his chest, running his now free hand slowly up Peter’s neck, a brand on his skin.

“Others like it rough.”

He huffed out the word through his teeth, grabbing Peter’s hair and yanking his head back, startling a gasp out of him, and his breath only grew shorter as Claude kissed his throat, gently, so very gently, lips soft and tender, whispers of snow barely falling on his skin, then suddenly he felt the sharp scrape of teeth.

“Which one,” Claude murmured as he squeezed between Peter’s legs with his thigh, “are you?”

A moan rose in Peter’s throat, but he clenched his teeth against it. He wouldn’t give Claude this victory, not after all the shit he’d put him through, but he was aching, desperate for Claude to either let him go or pull him closer and take him.

“Ah!”

Claude bit him! The bastard actually bit him. A devilish chuckle sparked on his skin and Peter jerked against Claude’s hold, trying to extricate his tangled arm, yet he didn’t really want to get free. He wanted Claude to turn him around and fuck him. He’d wanted that for two days, since he’d first focused on those thunderous eyes, since Claude pushed him against that post, his anger coiling over him like an infuriated rattlesnake.

“Nice response.” Claude said, raising his head, killing him with the allure of lips he was too far away to touch. “But a little vague. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Sp—Specific?”

Wasn’t his hard on proof enough? No way did Claude not feel that, for he kept stroking his thigh over it, staking his claim like a wolf stalking his prey.

“Gentle? Or rough?”

Was there even a point in asking for Peter’s answer? Didn’t the man already know? But of course, he had to say it, to yield like a good dog to his master. Yet hadn’t he done so already?

“Rough.”

Claude smiled, feral and possessive, and Peter tilted his head, exposing his neck.

“Good.”


End file.
